The successive deaths of two magicians didn't shake the resolve of the mainland sorcerers. Fear had long ceased to be a factor. This battle determined whether they could take root in this land, continue their magical research, and leave behind a legacy. As old magicians, devoted wholly to the pursuit of arcane truth, they had long wagered their lives on this ambition.
If their lifelong wish could not be fulfilled, then death was no loss.
Under Vortigern's command, Morgan stood as their greatest obstacle. Of course, they had considered their options before leaving the mainland. If there were a better path, would they really have abandoned their homes?
Morgan could feel the cold certainty in their intent to kill. It stirred confusion—and deeper than that, fury. She was no saint. If they dared to strike first, they would pay for it in blood.
She swept her staff forward. A black spear formed in the air and pierced the chest of the lead magician.
Yet none of them faltered. They knew they would die, but so long as they carved out a path for those who followed, it was worth it. Whether by passing on their family's unique magic or entrusting their research to apprentices, their goal remained the same—to ensure their magical dreams lived on, even if through others.
To reach the Root, even if only through a disciple or distant successor… that was enough.
The dying magician sealed his bleeding heart with magic, buying himself precious moments. Every second spent restraining Morgan would be a victory. Bone-forged chains shot from his sleeves, slicing through the air and winding tightly around her.
Morgan exploded with power. Her deep, black-blue magic flared outward, shattering the bone chains with a thunderous crack. Their caster spat blood and turned pale—he was out of time.
"What are you waiting for? Now! While she's open! Don't forget Vortigern's promise!" he roared.
Morgan's eyes narrowed. So it's you, old man. You'll pay dearly for this.
Dozens of sword-like magical constructs materialized around her. The mainland magicians hesitated—but too late. The spears, meant to strike Morgan, reversed course midair, breaking through their bodies instead. Two more fell.
From that moment, the battle turned into a slaughter.
Another magician leapt through the window, summoning a cloud of glowing butterflies to obscure vision. But Morgan calmly raised her staff and unleashed a black tide that surged from beneath her feet like a crashing wave.
All the magicians inside were struck down—save the one with the butterfly familiar, who was blown back through the shattered window, protected by his summoned beast.
When the wave finally receded, Morgan's deep blue eyes surveyed the aftermath—corpses and crippled enemies. She tilted her chin, her expression one of regal contempt.
"Is this all you can do?"
She advanced slowly, hand raised, black flame flickering in her palm. The survivors dared not move. That seemingly gentle flame could grow wild at any moment and consume them.
"I don't dislike weak or ugly things," Morgan said, her voice ice-cold. "In fact, they thrill me. I was finally getting excited. But it's over already... No matter the time or place, there are never enough rebels."
Just as she prepared to end them, several injured magicians suddenly lunged forward, grabbing her legs and holding on. Reflexively, she flung the flame downward. It consumed them quickly, reducing them to ash—but they never let go.
In the next instant, a figure emerged silently from her shadow, dagger in hand—its blade crackling with cursed magic. It stabbed toward her waist.
Morgan twisted, avoiding a fatal wound. But pinned by the bodies at her feet, she couldn't fully evade. The dagger struck home, sinking into her side.
The moment it tasted blood, black-purple light flooded from the blade into Morgan's body. Whispering curses surged into her mind, threatening to unravel her.
Her vision swam. Her wand trembled in her grasp. For a second, she swayed and nearly collapsed.
Morgan was powerful, yes—but still young. Less than a century old. Her bloodline and destiny promised unmatched greatness in time, but that time hadn't come. Not yet.
The final magician tore the dagger free, staring at the blood staining its edge. His hands shook. He had been entrusted with the killing blow as the inheritor of shadow magic. And now—he had landed it.
"I… I did it…" he whispered, dazed, breathless.
He looked down at Morgan, still standing but faltering. He raised the dagger again, determined to finish it.
"For our future!"
But before he could strike, a forging hammer flew in from the doorway and struck him squarely in the head. He collapsed instantly.
Aslan stood at the entrance, frowning at the wreckage.
Morgan couldn't fall here. This whole mess… it had something to do with him. And he wasn't about to stand by and do nothing.